When Your Ship Comes In
by Chalcedony Rivers
Summary: Like that other great traveller, Odysseus, Sherlock Holmes has faced perils and dangers that no man should ever have to face. And like Odysseus, he'll find his way home again someday. A Post-Reichenbach fic.
1. Part One

_O Muse! Sing in me and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all the ways of contending, a wanderer, harried for years on end…_

The night he knocked on Molly Hooper's door the air seemed frail as if weary of holding up the vast quantities of sky. The darkness was immeasurable and tempestuous, and the rain was as thin as the sheet of a sail. The sound the knock made was tiny in that great darkness, and it took her a while to get to the door, and yet when it opened there came such light and warmth from inside that his eyes burnt with it.

Molly gasped, and clasped her hands to her mouth. "Oh my God," she whispered. She was wearing her pyjamas and a dressing gown but he barely seemed aware of her apparel. She had put on weight, a pound or two since he'd last seen her, but otherwise she looked almost exactly the same. "It's you!"

"Yes. Can I come in?"

"Yes…yes, of course. God, I barely recognised you."

The door widened, and he tentatively stepped forward onto lush wine-dark carpet, feeling the unfamiliar softness of it underneath the heel of his shoes. He looked around at Molly's flat – a clean, homely sort of place, with potted plants on the window ledge and watercolour paintings on the walls. There were a few photos too, mostly of Molly at various stages of her life or with friends and family. The bookshelf was filled with Jane Austen; the table littered with forms not yet signed. A fat ginger cat was asleep in a basket next to the telly. The flat smelled of toast and radiators, and he breathed it in, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he turned round and looked at her. Her eyes wavered as she looked him up and down, taking in his appearance.

"You look-"

"Awful."

"Different."

He didn't have strength in him to argue. He cricked his neck and collapsed down on the soft sofa, feeling like an old man. He closed his eyes, and he could hear her move into the kitchen and put the kettle on. When he opened them again, she was nudging a cup of warm tea into his hands. He didn't want it, but took it and sipped it. It didn't taste right. He drank it anyway.

Molly sat down on a beanbag opposite him and watched him like he was an endangered animal in a glass case. "Where were you?"

"I've been on the Eurostar all night," he said, his voice scratching at his throat as it clawed its way up. "Haven't slept for nearly…" A quick calculation. "Thirty eight hours." He took another gulp of tea and his tongue tingled with the heat.

"You know that's not what I meant."

He didn't reply to that. He watched the steady rise and fall of the cat's stomach.

"Everyone thought you were dead."

"No they didn't," he said quickly, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. "You didn't."

She smiled patiently. "I know. That's why I gave you my address. You could have called, though."

He laughed, spitting it out through his teeth. "Yes, that would have been helpful, wouldn't it? Hello, I'm alive, only now I'm not because the people after me have traced my call and shot me in the back of the head."

She frowned at his tone, and he tried to steady his breathing. "Sorry."

"John thought you were dead. He still does."

"You think I don't know that? That was the plan. He had to."

Molly didn't say anything. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held the mug with both hands like a small child. After a moment she said, "But it's over now."

It wasn't a question, but he still answered it: "Yes."

"Everything's gone; everything's…taken care of."

"Yes."

"You're back for good."

He sighed. "Yes."

There was a moment of silence. Then, the inevitable: "What happened, Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes leant back against the pillow, and closed his eyes.

* * *

The smell was disgusting. People were laid sprawled across the floor stagnating in their own pungent clouds of filth. The wooden floor was dirty, the air tainted with the distinct odour of stale urine and vomit. The windows had been papered over with thick layers of brown tape, and a single flickering lightbulb dangled from the ceiling. A cockroach darted across one sleeping man's hand, and he barely twitched. The roach paused by a discarded needle and then crawled atop a plate of something that had once been edible but was now covered with a thick layer of mould.

Sherlock shivered at the sight as he gazed blankly at the puckered arms and legs of the sleeping men: about nine in total. In a corner a young girl, barely older than eighteen, stirred from atop a clump of pillows and blinked at him. She grinned dreamily and mumbled something slurred in Dutch. When she had finished speaking he nodded, even though he had no idea what secrets she might have confessed. She smiled a satisfied smile, and then lolled back against the pillows, her eyes closed.

He ran a hand through his lemon-yellow hair. Then, as quietly as possible, he stepped over the varying limbs that criss-crossed the floor, broken glass and needles snapping underneath the soles of his shoes, until he got to the stairs that led to the second floor of the building. The wood of the floor was rotting, and the steps felt as if they would give way under him. The walls were stained with large patches of damp. He took in every one of these details and filed them safely away in his mind for future reference.

When he reached the door at the top of the stairs, he didn't even stop to pause before pushing it open. It gave way without a struggle.

The room upstairs was nearly as dingy as the one below, but with a square of light flooding in from an open window. The man within was short, with a rotund stomach and thinning hair. Unhappily married, with a string of ongoing affairs – if you could call them that. No children. A cat. Alcoholic. He'd been back in Amsterdam for two days now and he'd been drinking steadily ever since. He turned and fixed Sherlock with curious eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, in accented English. Used to dealing with Western strangers, then. He was definitely the man Sherlock was looking for.

"You must be Ambroos Zylstra," he smiled, and held out his hand. Zylstra looked at it warily for a moment like it was some kind of great insect, but then took it. His handshake was weak. "I've heard a lot about you."

"To whom do I own the honor?"

"Nick Barnes," Sherlock replied with an easy smile. Zylstra dropped his hand.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, Mr. Barnes, that I have not once had the pleasure of hearing about you."

Sherlock shrugged. "We had a mutual acquaintance."

He looked the man right in the eye, and felt the immediate understanding buzz between them. Zylstra clapped him on the shoulder like a brother, and it took Sherlock an inordinate amount of effort not to flinch at the unwanted contact. "I see! You were a friend of Jim's, yes?"

"I was."

"Poor, unfortunate man," said Zylstra, shaking his head from side to side. "What a way to die."

"Yes," Sherlock sneered. "Poor Jim."

Zylstra took no notice of his tone. "I hear he was after someone, but I don't read the papers much." He wandered over to a cabinet on the other side of the room, and withdrew a bottle of red wine and two dusty glasses. He uncorked the bottle with his fingers, poured out two drinks of almost identical volume and handed one to his guest.

"To Jim," he toasted solemnly, and tossed back the glass in one. He sighed and smacked his lips. Sherlock smiled politely, and pretended to take a sip.

"So, Mr. Barnes, what brings you to Amsterdam?"

"Just business."

"And what business would that be?"

"I like to think it's in a similar vein to yours, Mr. Zylstra. I was hoping to take over from Jim after he died, but…"

"This is bad news. It would have been a great pleasure to work with you. Still, if you are acquainted with Jim you must have met the man who fills his shoes, yes?"

"I am afraid I have not had the opportunity. I know next to nothing about him."

"His name is…ah, Moran. Sebastian Moran." Zylstra screwed up his face and scratched his nose with a spidery finger. "A nice man, but impatient. He wants to make changes which cannot yet be made. These things take time."

Sherlock feigned another sip. "Indeed."

"Still, it is nice to be doing business again. For a month or so I worried our relationship would be strained. But I sent a cargo out this morning – very nice, high quality. You are not enjoying your wine, Mr. Barnes?"

Sherlock was somewhat taken aback by the flawless change of topic, but restrained a blink of surprise. It would not do to ruin the illusion at such a crucial point.

"It is excellent. But I do not like to drink while on business, you understand."

"Ah. Of course. Then I hope you will not mind me taking another."

Zylstra poured out a half-glass, but then tutted as he realized the bottle was now empty. He turned back to the cabinet to retrieve a second, and Sherlock grasped the opportunity with both hands to retrieve the small tablet from his pocket and silently drop it into the glass. It fizzed for a moment before dissolving completely. Zylstra, his hands shaking, turned back and filled the rest of the glass up.

"To your health, Mr. Barnes," he grinned, and then took a great gulp and set the glass back down on the table. Sherlock returned the smile.

"And to yours," he said. "It is excellent wine, Mr. Zylstra. I can understand why you drink it so much. But then again, alcohol does tend to dull the senses, don't you agree?"

Zylstra frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, come now. You must, otherwise you wouldn't have let a complete stranger into your den and taken his word on everything he said."

"I am afraid I do not understand you."

Sherlock smiled. "But I think you do. Your pulse is quickening and your hands are beginning to sweat just a little bit. You are beginning to find it just a little difficult to breathe. In approximately thirty seconds you will be unconscious. I wouldn't worry yourself, though. You will wake up eventually. Of course, by then the police will have been informed of your whereabouts, your cargo ship will have been detained and you will be in hospital recovering from a heart attack and preparing for a very long stay in prison. You will also have forgotten everything about our meeting. Sometimes medicine is _so_ useful, isn't it, and I'm sure the people downstairs will appreciate me giving you a taste of yours. But then again, I suppose all of this will already have crossed your mind."

Zylstra shuddered once, and then collapsed down onto the arm chair, his face pale and his breathing ragged. The glass in his hand slipped, and shattered on the floor.

Sherlock watched him for a moment. Then he turned and left the room as quickly as he could, repeating the name _Sebastian Moran_ over and over in his mind.

* * *

Sebastian Moran was thirty two years old, the same age as Moriarty had been, and lived like his old boss somewhere in the bowels of Soho. He'd been brought up in Surrey by his single mother, done poorly in school and joined the army aged eighteen. He'd been a sniper, dishonourably discharged seven years ago, but the event had been swept under a rug made of concrete and so was impossible to unearth. Unlike his previous employer, Moran had no qualms with being famous – whereas 'Moriarty' was a name nobody spoke, 'Moran' was free knowledge among those in the know. This was quite probably due to the fact that Moran was, up until this point, a complete unknown. The rest was silence.

It had taken nearly two weeks for Sherlock to gather the limited information he had; a fortnight that consisted of sitting in inexpensive hotel rooms picking over newspaper articles and websites like carrion, sent to him from various reliable sources. Since Moriarty's death, things had seemed mostly quiet, but now it was beginning again – minor bombings, small assassinations, unremarkable deaths. It seemed Moran was eager to make a name for himself. It had started with Zylstra and now Sherlock's dogged trail had led him here to make his acquaintance with David Willoughby.

It was thus that he found himself in Beirut with a bag full of fake papers and a cool evening wind against his shoulders. He drained the lukewarm bottle of water in his hand and then tossed it into a nearby bin. He was glad the hot sun had smoothed over with the coming night – none of his family had ever been partial to warmer climates and he was no exception. The suit he was wearing was scratching his skin as it was and his hair felt heavy from the red dye he had coloured it with a few hours previously. The thick-rimmed glasses pressed against the bridge of his nose.

The door to the British Embassy was guarded by a heavy-set man with strong eyebrows who glared at Sherlock as he advanced on him with practised graceful movements.

"You on the list?" the man asked, tapping on a clipboard with a pen.

"Um…yes, I should be," Sherlock replied with a falsely soft voice. "Alistair Martinson – I'm a Foreign Correspondent for the Evening Standard. Is that alright?"

The security guard frowned as he scanned the list before stopping. "ID?"

"Er…" Sherlock patted his pockets down with exaggerated nervousness before pulling out his doctored passport. "Yes. Is that…?"

The man took the card and then reluctantly nodded. "Go right through."

"Thanks very much," Sherlock smiled. He took his card and slipped through the open doorway into the brightness of the lights.

Whoever had designed the building had clearly done so with its English origins in mind. The inside was a grand affair designed to look like an old Etonian library with mahogany-panelled walls and a lavish carpet. Every lamp was on full blast, including the electric chandeliers that hung above, and yet there was a darkness loitering in the corners. All around were people clustered together: important people discussing important things, their groups only broken by waiters handing them small works of edible art on trays. Sherlock relaxed his shoulders and smiled easily at a young woman as she glided past him in an elegant cream dress.

He only had one night; one shot at this. It required precision and delicacy. He had to make sure the timing was right.

He wandered through the throng into the next cavernous room, scanning the crowd for his man. The smell of bureaucracy was all-pervading, as cloying as the expensive perfume in the air. For a moment Sherlock felt a pang of anxiety – he needed to start work as swiftly as possible – but then this was dispelled as his eye fell on a middle-aged man in the corner of the room.

Willoughby was shaking hands with an elderly gentleman, smiling a smile that nearly snapped his thin face in half. He was a man almost utterly devoid of colour: the cloudy glaucoma in his right eye matched his sleek grey suit, dark hair and polished shoes. He had the air about him of a man accustomed to having people come to him rather than he go to them. As Sherlock approached him he turned, still smiling, to look him up and down.

Sherlock smiled faux-nervously, adopting jittery movements and a shy smile. "David Willoughby?"

"The very same," Willoughby nodded, stretching out his hand as if he expected him to kiss it. Sherlock shook it eagerly.

"Alistair Martinson, Evening Standard. It's good to meet you."

The ambassador smiled condescendingly. "Are you reporting on the evening?"

"Yes," Sherlock enthused. "It's been such a triumph, such a triumph for the government. I mean, the whole cell – it's remarkable."

"Well, of course the Prime Minister is thrilled with the results, we all are." Willoughby scratched the back of his neck. "We couldn't have done it without the incredible work effort of our security forces. It only takes one group to cause chaos but it is the work done by ordinary citizens that allows us to combat the threat."

The whole speech sounded rehearsed. It was a perfect opportunity. Sherlock grinned and took a dictophone from his trouser pocket. "Can I quote you on that?"

Willoughby gave a haughty smirk and leant towards the device. "It only takes one group to cause chaos," he said studiously, "But it is the work done by ordinary citizens that allows us to combat the threat."

Sherlock switched off the recorder. "Fantastic, fantastic," he said, fumbling with his pockets. "May we take a walk, somewhere a bit quieter? I imagine my boss would be fascinated to hear your thoughts on the operation."

It was just the sort of bait Willoughby required, and like a bloated trout he swelled with pride and nodded his approval. "Of course."

He took Sherlock's shoulder like they were old friends and began to steer him towards an open door which led into one of the embassy's conference rooms, the only distinguishing feature of which was an antique painting of a sheep on one wall. It took a lot of effort for Sherlock not to shudder at the clammy palm sweating on his jacket. Willoughby shut the door behind them, and the warm hum of the guests was extinguished.

Willoughby took a seat at the large wooden table. Sherlock sat opposite, retrieving the dictophone once more and placing it on the table between them.

"So, could you give me a brief explanation as to what threat this cell posed to the country?"

Willoughby shook his hand dismissively. "They were a small rogue band left over from the paramilitary wing of Hezbollah when we had that coup a few years ago. They disliked the agreement we came to and so broke away from the main group. They were planning on staging another coup to further their political gains – acting on basic terror. Had they been allowed to continue the threat would have been significant."

"But the government managed to quell it, of course."

"Yes. We received a tip-off from a source that told us of the group's activities and we were able to shut it down…" Willoughby clapped his hands together, "Like that. Absolutely not a single one left."

Sherlock leaned forward with a conspiratorial smile. "Who was the source?"

Willoughby laughed. "If I were to tell you it would greatly compromise his safety."

"Safety? Who would put him in danger; I thought you said there were no members left?"

Willoughby coughed. "Well, what I mean by that is-"

"You mean there are more terrorists out there?"

"Of course not! I cannot hand out the details of an anonymous source…" Willoughby frowned. "What paper did you say you were from again?"

"You know what I think?" Sherlock asked. "I think you know exactly who your source is. I think your source came to you and told you about this supposed group and I think your source offered something you just couldn't refuse. What was it? Power? Influence? Enduring popularity? I think your _source_ offered to give you a group to frame and you accepted not because it was the right thing to do but because you wanted your name splashed across all the newspapers in England. David Willoughby: the man who saved Lebanon. And all you had to do was to agree. A couple of thousand pounds missing, who would notice? Nobody's hurt, after all. A few innocent men rotting away in prison but who cares when it's all for the _greater good_-"

Willoughby was floundering now, and he stood up sharply. "You have no right," he squawked, rubbing his one good eye with his hand. "No right!"

"Who was your source, Mr. Willoughby?" Sherlock demanded. "I'll bet you don't really know, do you? You never saw him, after all, only ever communicated through contacts. Am I right?"

"This is nonsense. I don't have any idea what you're insinuating."

"What was his name?"

"Who?"

"Your source; what was his _name_?"

"I don't know!"

Sherlock tapped at the dictophone. "It's all here. As good as a confession and I have more proof. You'll be _ripped apart_. You won't have any influence, no friends. You'll be nothing. Now tell me, what was his name?"

Shaking, Willoughby collapsed back down into the chair. "Moran," he said weakly. "They said he was called Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock grinned. "Excellent," he said. "Where is he?"

"I don't know-"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know!" Willoughby banged his hands on the table. "He could be anywhere but wherever he is, he's not in Beirut."

Sherlock hummed. "Fine." He picked up the dictophone, switched it off and stuffed it into his pocket. "Well, David, thank you very much for your time. I'd like to tell you that this partnership you have with Moran ends here, if I may."

"It will, of course it will."

Sherlock smiled. "Good. Though I might hang onto this," he tapped his pocket, "Just in case. I don't have much trust for politicians."

Willoughby gaped. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is the least of your concerns right now." Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Laters."

Then he slipped back through the door, leaving the ambassador behind quivering in the bright lights and the ever-watchful eye of the painted sheep.

* * *

He drummed his fingers against the dashboard, feeling the leather of his gloves squish underneath his fingertips as they tapped in time to the music on the stereo. Granted, Vladimir Martynov's _Beatitudes_ might not have been the best soundtrack to this particular escapade, but then again neither was the costume. Anyway, he'd given the woman five and a half minutes, and he needed something to occupy him.

There came a sudden deep crack from inside the Bank of Moscow, contrasting fiercely with the swelling violins of the piece's ending refrain: a Browning, judging by the pitch of the shot.

John had a Browning.

But then Sherlock blinked the thought away. Now was definitely not the time, of all times, to become overwhelmed with sentimentality.

The CD cut out and another minute passed in clean silence. Sherlock ran his fingers over the steering wheel and glanced at his face in the rear-view mirror – or at least, he glanced at the small piece of his face that was not shrouded by the large cloth that covered all save his eyes. He was glad he had kept this outfit from the escapade with The Woman; he had known it would come in useful someday.

In his peripheral vision he saw a sudden jolt of movement and twisted his head to see the glass doors of the banks swinging. The woman was running down the steps, stumbling slightly in her stiletto heels, her eyes covered by large sunglasses. She sauntered up to the car, her briefcase swinging in her left hand, and climbed into the back seat as Sherlock started the engine.

"I think we have about five minutes," she said. Her thick Russian accent bubbled in her throat, rendering her words almost indistinguishable from each other.

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock agreed, and he pulled the car away from the pavement and began to drive away.

The woman did not speak to him so he studied her in the mirror. She was around twenty eight but already conscious of her age, judging by the frankly alarming shade of red that coloured her hair. The Browning was in the pocket of her leather jacket, a possible advantage. She was suffering from the remnants of a cold, which would make her somewhat slower to react. This could be beneficial. Her posture was strong; she'd been trained in the art of self-defence, but now she seemed extraordinarily relaxed for someone who'd just committed a crime. She hadn't thought not to trust him. First mistake.

There was a rustle near Sherlock's ear. He twisted his head, and plucked a ruble note from where it had been caught in the current of the wind and hovered near his face. He held it between the tips of his middle and index fingers. When he turned around he could see the briefcase on the woman's lap. It hadn't been fastened properly, stuffed too hastily, and the clips had come loose. Notes were prying themselves from inside the case, fluttering manically in the wind from the open window. The woman laughed with childlike abandon as Sherlock wound the window shut.

"How much?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, letting go of the note. It fell to the floor heavily, like it had tumbled from a building.

The woman did not reply for a moment. Then she said, "Excuse me?" as if it required a great amount of effort.

"The money. How much?"

She shrugged and reached up to play with a large, hooped earring. "Seventy million."

Sherlock turned the car down a corner, heading towards the suburban areas of Moscow. "What do you plan to do with it?"

The woman pursed her lips. "I don't think that's any of your business," she said. "I pay you to drive, not to ask questions."

"My apologies," he replied smoothly, channelling Mycroft.

"Has Kolya put you up to this?" she demanded. "He needn't worry; he'll get his ten percent."

Sherlock remained silent.

"How do you know Kolya, anyway?"

"We have mutual connections," he replied, as he turned the car into a side-street. The woman hadn't yet realised that, instead of driving towards the safe point, he was taking her in the opposite direction. "He said you needed a driver and I owe him a favour."

"Are you being paid for this?"

"Not a ruble."

She smiled, white teeth glistening. "Then why do you do it?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to pull the cloth away from his face, and shrugged. "Kolya said dangerous, and here I am."

The woman hummed, and fell silent. They were deep in the heart of the Lefortovo District now, and headed still further east. Sherlock estimated that he had about four minutes before she realised that they were not heading towards the safe house like they should, but instead were continuing along the path out of the city.

In actuality, it only took two.

The woman suddenly sat bolt upright and said, "Where are we?"

Sherlock took the opportunity to turn into a convenient side street. He switched the engine off, and then made a show of locking it and storing the key in his trouser pocket. Then he eyed the woman in the rear-view mirror.

"What is the meaning of this?" she hissed, and then said something in Russian before switching back to a dialect he could understand. "What, are you trying to rob me? You don't think Kolya will hear of this?"

"Fire him," Sherlock replied, tightening the scarf around his face. "Get someone who won't sell you out to anybody with enough money."

That threw her, and she pulled the Browning from her pocket. She did not point it at him, but held it threateningly on her lap. In response, he opened up the glove compartment and placed the Smith and Wesson that lay there on the dashboard. He said nothing; just let the threat hang in the air until its feet stopped twitching.

"What do you want?" she asked eventually.

"To talk."

"Well, what are your opinions on Putin's re-election, then?"

Sherlock smiled at that. "What can you tell me about Jim Moriarty?"

Her face contorted into a grimace. "He is dead. No good to either of us."

"What about Sebastian Moran?"

"Never heard of him."

"My sources say otherwise." He paused, and then said: "Wouldn't your father like to know where you are, Emilia?"

The woman – Emilia – took off her sunglasses and stared at his reflection with cold eyes. "Moran is dangerous," she said. "He doesn't take kindly to strangers putting their fingers in his business."

"And what is your business?"

Emilia flicked her earring again. "We have a partnership of convenience."

"Which is?"

"I give him ten percent of my earnings, and he provides me with everything else – a safe house, connections, guns." She laughed again: that full-throated laugh which, had Sherlock been any other man, would have made his toes curl with longing. "Men are all the same. You give them money and they turn into pigs, right before your eyes."

"Is that why you've taken up with Zora Avilov?"

Emilia's face twisted sharply into pure rage, and her hand tightened around the handle of the gun. "You leave her _out_ of this, _svoloch_!"

"I meant nothing by it. I was simply making an observation."

"You can take your observations and stick them up your-"

He didn't have time for this. "Where can I find Sebastian Moran?"

"I don't know!" Emilia protested. "I send the money out to a bank in London, but he could be anywhere. Nobody ever sees him; nobody speaks to him. He just provides, no questions asked. But if you're looking for him, you should be careful."

"Why?"

"He has friends in high places."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you for your time. You've been most helpful to my inquiry."

Her eyes glittered, and she smiled savagely. "Who are you?"

"Nobody."

"Well then, next time someone asks me which intelligent, cunning man foiled my perfect robbery; I shall tell them it was Nobody."

Sherlock smiled, and looked down to fish the car keys out of his pocket, only realising his mistake in doing so when he felt the barrel of a gun being pointed at his temple. In the mirror, his eyes made contact with the woman's.

"You're not Nobody, you're Nothing," growled Emilia. "And stay away from Zora."

She raised the gun up, and brought it down, and then there was only darkness.

When he woke up again, he was lying on the roadside in the thickening darkness. The car was gone, as was Emilia and his wallet. He pulled the cloth away from his face and let it drop to the floor. A low groan rumbled in his throat as he wiped away the trickle of dried blood on his cheek. He knew he should probably have taken himself to a hospital – John would have told him to do so – but instead he stumbled off into the night.

* * *

A week later, Sherlock found himself back in Paris. He was on the Metro when the headline of a discarded English tabloid caught his eye. "Genius Detective's Name Cleared," it said, and there was a blurry photograph of Kitty Reilly being taken into custody. He stopped, but didn't pick it up. He already knew that there would be nothing: no explosive declarations of loyalty or some shocking new piece of evidence. There would just be a quiet series of admittances from a few senior ranking policemen, prompted by a name that wouldn't even be in print.

He thought it was probably time to go back to Whitstable.


	2. Part Two

The sea was calm that night as Sherlock stood on the balcony, looking out over the beach. He'd taken the opportunity to bathe in a bathtub as wide and deep as the river Styx, and had slept for a while in one of the many silent rooms that the house contained. The sky was dark and peppered with small stars the likes of which were foreign to a London mind, and the quiet rush of the sand disintegrating under the surging roar of the North Sea was the only sound to be heard. He took in a deep gulp of salty air, and wandered back through to the vast sitting room, throwing himself on a lavish sofa. It was five to nine.

When the minute hand clasped the hour, he heard the key click in the lock but he didn't flinch at the noise. Instead, he closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of a coat being hung up and a pair of crisp footsteps that walked across the wooden floorboards into the living room, and then abruptly stopped. There came a great sigh.

"Hello, Sherlock," said Mycroft wearily.

"Mycroft," returned Sherlock, and his eyes snapped open. His brother was standing in the doorway, cutting a silhouette into the square of yellow light. His jacket was draped over his shoulder, and his shirt unusually rumpled.

"How was the drive?"

Mycroft smiled tightly. "Fine, thank you." He threw his jacket on a chair and rolled up his sleeves like he was about to go into a boxing match. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Already had one."

"Of course." Mycroft rubbed at his eye with the palm of his eye, and then sat primly down on the armchair, resting his left ankle on his right knee. "Where have you been?"

"Fine."

"Not _how_ have you been, Sherlock, _where_ have you been?"

Sherlock didn't reply; just continued to stare at the ceiling, feeling his brother's eyes boring into him like a pneumatic drill. In his peripheral vision he could see Mycroft clasping his hands into a steeple and pressing them to his lips.

"You know, a child sex-trafficking ring in Germany was closed up a few months ago; a group that nobody could get to. We had our best people on it and nothing. And then, out of the blue, we're told that apparently a 'concerned benefactor' alerted the police to their whereabouts. That wouldn't have anything to do with you, now, would it?"

Sherlock smiled. "Me? No. John Drysdale had quite a lot to do with it, though."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "_John_ Drysdale? How touching."

"John is one of the most common names in the English language, Mycroft; do _try_ not to become sentimental."

"Why are you here, Sherlock?"

"I need information – any files you might have on Sebastian Moran."

"Is that all?"

Sherlock frowned up at the clean ceiling. "Yes."

"No it isn't."

"You're right. Why did you clear my name?"

"Because I don't want people thinking you're a fraud," Mycroft replied lightly.

"That's the whole point!" Sherlock snapped. "He…_they_ are supposed to think I'm a fraud because then they won't come looking for me!"

There was a long silence in which the detective tried very hard not to look at his brother.

"Do you want to know what John is doing right now?"

Sherlock flinched. "Mycroft, this isn't the time, it's not why I'm here-"

"No, Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was commanding and fierce; a tone he rarely used. The last time Sherlock had heard it was on a grounded plane half a year ago, and before that it had been when he was lying nearly comatose in St. Bart's hospital. "You chose to care. I warned you not to but you didn't listen to me and you did it anyway. You can't pick and choose. You may not want to listen, but these people _will_ be heard."

Sherlock didn't reply.

"Right now John is being besieged by countless tabloid reporters who want an exclusive scoop. There is always at least one standing outside his door when he leaves in the morning and one when he returns. If he tells them to leave, they ignore him. If I tell them to leave they do, but then they're back the very next day. They think he's an easy target because he's an ex-soldier with a limp, but what they don't know is that during every second of free time he has he looks for you. He scans every newspaper, follows every possible lead even when he knows it's a dead end. He does not believe you are a fraud, and he wants to know what made you jump; what was _impossible_ enough that you had to die for it. He's looking for you, Sherlock, whether you like it or not."

Sherlock licked his rapidly drying lips. "And the others?"

"Mrs. Hudson is back from visiting her sister in Bath, but she is finding it difficult with John back in Baker Street. She hasn't asked him for the rent in months. It's lucky her inheritance was as big as it was otherwise Doctor Watson might have found himself one flat short. DI Lestrade has been reposted to the Serious and Organised Crime division. It's a step down from Homicide but at least my saved favours could guarantee his future at Scotland Yard."

Sherlock didn't speak for a very long time. Then he said, "I need the file on Moran."

"No need. Moran was raised by his mother in a council estate in Surrey. She was a paranoid schizophrenic and committed suicide when he was seventeen. He never did very well in school, often exploded into fits of violence and assaulted a learning mentor when he was in his Third Year. He joined the army aged eighteen but was forced out when he shot an Afghan citizen on a whim. Aside from that, there's nothing on him. Nothing can be traced back. His file is clean."

"How do I find him?"

Mycroft sighed deeply, as if he was forcing all the air from his lungs. "We currently have very little information on his whereabouts. We have been led to believe he is currently residing under a false name in Istanbul."

Sherlock smirked. "Wrong. He's in London."

"Oh? And how did you learn that?"

"By asking the right person. Honestly, the Secret Service really is incompetent."

"You don't have to tell me," Mycroft smiled. "I work with them."

There was a very long silence. Minutes might have passed in that vast expanse of time, or hours, Sherlock wasn't quite sure. Outside, the rhythmic beating of the sea kept on, calling him away.

"I'm going back to London. I need to collect information on Moran's whereabouts."

Mycroft raised a pencil-sharp eyebrow. "Are you sure that's wise?"

"I don't have any other options."

"Would you like me to arrange for some protection?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Don't be ridiculous. My homeless network is all the protection I need, and a lot more capable than _your people_."

Mycroft winced imperceptibly. He looked exhausted; drained. "Do you go out of your way to make yourself obnoxious or is it a naturally occurring variable?"

"High-functioning sociopath, brother, I thought we'd had that covered."

"No you're not."

Sherlock frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You clearly consider me a fool, Sherlock. Everyone else might swallow that line, but I won't. You wish to refuse my help? Fine. But I care for you, and I want you to be safe."

"You're not my mother, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffed.

"And you're not my responsibility, yet here we are. I know you were never quite grabbed by the concept of familial ties, but do try to accept that some people actually tolerate your presence in their lives."

"I don't need to tolerate yours."

"Then why did you come here? It's quite clear you already know more about Moran than my team do, and that you already know how you are going to deal with him. What possible value could this visit entail, if not sentimentality?"

Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that. Mycroft smiled triumphantly.

"I'm going to have to go underground for a while," the detective said eventually. "Find out where he's hiding; how best to get to him. I probably won't be in Britain for long."

"The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience…" Mycroft pondered. "I think this may be the first entirely selfless act you have ever performed. Well done."

"Don't patronise me, Mycroft, it doesn't become you."

"Mummy would be so proud."

"Please. She always preferred you. You were the good child. Didn't it ever get boring, being so _good_ all the time?"

Mycroft shook his head. "You think she preferred me? God, no. I was too much a – what is that term you're so fond of? A high-functioning sociopath. You had fire. Passion. Emotion. You still do. Of course…" He drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. "I was the one who sat through hours of detoxing just so Mummy wouldn't have to see you in that state."

Sherlock rested his fingers on his mouth as Mycroft slowly unfurled himself from the chair. The older Holmes stood silently in the middle of the vast room before reaching into his pocket and drawing out a credit card. He looked at it thoughtfully.

"When are you leaving?" he asked.

"Tomorrow."

Mycroft hummed, and then laid the small slab of plastic on the arm of the sofa, next to his brother's mess of hair. "Take this, then. I understand you're going incognito but I'd hate to see you starve in the process."

Sherlock didn't touch the card.

"Spend the night here. You're always welcome, you know."

"Thank you."

Mycroft leant against the doorpost and sighed once more, looking as if he were about to be physically sick under the burden of his words. "Sherlock…you know I – care for you, very deeply. I just wanted you to know that."

"I thought you said caring wasn't an advantage."

The politician smiled. "Well, there's an exception to every rule. I'm sure our good Doctor will understand."

"Good_night_, Mycroft."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

It was probably as close to love as they would ever get.

By the time the sun began to rise over the Whitstable beach and the sea, the sofa was empty and Sherlock was already gone.

* * *

In every experiment, there was an anomaly; an outlier, something which could not have been predicted, no matter how thorough the scientist. This outlier could appear as a mark on a graph which threw the results sideways or as a small glitch in the mechanisms involved. In the case of Sherlock Holmes, the outlier appeared on a cold and rainy day that was buried in the cavity of Dalston, North London.

For the past few weeks the streets of London had made an acceptable if not comfortable sleeping-place. The people he had formally employed had taken him in as one of their own, encompassing him like a protective shield so that, in their company, he blended into the brick walls and the concrete as they did. People never looked twice at a homeless person. Once or twice some sympathetic Sixth Former had bought him a coffee from Starbucks, but not once did they recognise his face. His appearance had changed dramatically since his last television emergence, but even so the inhabitants of the Capital were almost unrepentantly unobservant, despite the 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes' graffiti he saw dotted here and there.

In his mind, he had drawn a locus: a circle that surrounded everywhere that was three miles away from his previous residence. Outside the circle, he could operate freely with little concern of being seen by people he knew. Within the circle was the danger zone. He could see the imaginary lines as clearly as if they had been marked on the pavement, and he had informed his colleagues to prevent him from stepping even one foot over the barriers. They, of course, could come and go as they pleased – he had informed them that they would be rewarded handsomely once everything had been fixed – and sometimes he would ask them to visit Baker Street, just to make sure no remarkable changes had taken place. They were fond of this sentimentality, adopting a new name for themselves: the Baker Street Irregulars.

And so the life of Sherlock Holmes continued.

Moran had proved to be a difficult fish to catch. His name cropped up in several petty criminal gangs here and there, but he never seemed to be one place – rather, he flitted around like a phantom. There were rumours everywhere: it seemed that Moran was in Italy and Spain and Serbia, all at the same time. Sherlock looked up at the blank-slate sky and for a moment thought fondly of Moriarty's insistent flamboyance. At least the man had been easy to find.

There was a crick in his neck, and Sherlock rubbed at the sore spot with one hand. He had heard that Moran was involved with a gang in Dalston, and had come to investigate the small chance that the gossip might take him somewhere. The day was cold; the sort of cold that crept into your bones, and he regretted letting Molly keep his coat after the autopsy. He rubbed his hands together, and stepped out of the alleyway onto Mare Street.

He stopped.

There was a Turkish café opposite him, surrounded by a ring of bright yellow police tape that rippled in the breeze like the sail of a ship. Two more strips of tape were blocking off the rest of the road, creating a small island, and a police car was parked within its perimeters. The window of said café had a small hole in its centre, with trails of cracked glass stretching out to the wooden frame – a shooting gone wrong, presumably.

Another police car pulled up, sirens blazing, and a slim figure climbed out from the front seat. Sherlock felt his heart falter and he quickly pulled back into the shadows. For a moment, he didn't know how to go on. He could have turned back immediately, ignored it all and continued on his path. But the seed of temptation had already been planted deep within his heart. Nobody would recognise him, he told himself, and so with a tentative movement he stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street.

At the same time, a man came out of the café, and stood on the pavement, glaring at the new arrival in disbelief. The figure – a woman – ran a hand through her unkempt hair.

Then Greg Lestrade opened his mouth and called: "What the hell are you doing here?"

For a moment, Sally Donovan said nothing. As Sherlock came to a stop, he heard her reply, "Investigating a crime scene, Greg – same as you."

"This isn't your division," said Lestrade, rubbing his hands together.

"There's a man lying dead. It _is_ my division."

Ah. So that answered the question of who had replaced Lestrade as head of Homicide. Now that was a shame. But then, the Met always had liked a sycophant.

Lestrade shook his head with a haggard sigh, and raised his hands in defeat. "Fine, then. I'll just be off, shall I?"

He pushed past her, walking purposefully towards the police van, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Sally bit her lip and called, "Greg, wait!"

The DI stopped in his tracks. "What do you want, Donovan?"

Sally flinched at the formality. When she next spoke, her voice was so soft that Sherlock strained to hear it. "I just…talk to me, please."

"What about? You've already been given the case file, haven't you?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

Lestrade sighed deeply. "Yeah, I do. God help me."

"Sir, I…we used to be friends; can't we talk about this?"

"There's nothing to talk about. He died, I got fired and you got my job. He was innocent. You were wrong. Does that clear things up?"

"I didn't ask for this!" Sally called, and Sherlock wasn't sure whether she meant the promotion or the other thing.

"Well, it damn well looks like you did!"

It would be so easy, Sherlock mused, to go over there: to stride up, and solve their case for them; to prove them both wrong. After all, Moriarty was dead; his name had been cleared, and the deep, ferocious tug on his heart was so, so painful. It would be easy, and it would be wonderful. He opened his mouth to call out to them, but at that moment a young officer who he didn't know stood in his path and batted his hands like Sherlock was some disgusting bluebottle.

"Back off, mate. This is a crime scene, not the bloody Odeon."

Before he had any time to object Sherlock had turned on his heels and walked, nearly running, from the high street. Once he was back in the secluded safety of the alleyway he leant against the wall, breathing tightly. Then he swiftly picked himself up and walked the other way, without once looking back.

Behind him, the police van drove away with its sirens wailing.

* * *

There had been a man who knew a man who knew where Sebastian Moran was hiding. Then there had been a messy jumble of time which, when he tried to look back over it made his head throb. Somewhere within that labyrinth had been a plane ride, most of which was blanketed by the thick delirium of sleep. He had awoken in a bright white room with light streaming through the windows, his shoulders burning from the unaccustomed luxury of a mattress against them instead of a pavement. It had taken him a while to remember where he was and this frightened him, like someone had taken the floor from underneath his feet and replaced it with a bottomless sea.

He'd ended up in San Sebastián, on the north coast of Spain. Moran probably thought he was being terribly funny, hiding out here. Sherlock had been hoping that his new nemesis would have a little more finesse about him, but then again, this time he wasn't here to play.

He sat on a bench by the docks and watched the seagulls wheeling and cajoling around the tall masts. A boat was pulling into the harbour, leaving behind little ripples in the blue water. He felt too hot, too sticky, and although he'd splashed some cool water on his face before checking out of the hotel, he hadn't had a proper shower for weeks. He'd left all of the clothes that Molly had provided for him back with the homeless network, and had used Mycroft's card to purchase a cheap white shirt and some black linen trousers, yet the newness of the garments did nothing to freshen his spirit. The midday sun was too glaring. He missed British clouds.

Sherlock suddenly registered the hard step of boots against the wooden pathways as a man walked past his bench. The man's hands were shoved violently in his jeans – expensive, but well-worn; he had a lot of money but didn't want to show it. Sandy blonde hair, cropped, army style. He walked casually, but his posture was upright: a military career, then. Tan lines around his wrists suggested he'd been here a while but definitely wasn't a native, and – oh. _Oh_.

It took all of Sherlock's restraint not to leap up and grab Moran by the collar there and then. He clasped his hands together, and watched as the rifleman – he looked exactly like he did in the CCTV photographs – wandered over to the boat that Sherlock had been watching earlier. A figure, too far away to examine properly, but overweight and clearly male, disembarked the rusty vessel and shook Moran's hand. Then they walked away together, in the opposite direction.

Quietly, Sherlock stood up, and began to follow them.

The two men made their way over to a sleek black car that was parked by a row of houses, and as soon as the doors opened Sherlock took off into a run. The car reversed out of its slot, and began to drive away. The detective almost tripped over his feet as he ran into the road and then screeched to a stop as the car, the figure and Moran drove off into the distance.

Then there was a blare of horns, and Sherlock wheeled around to see a black and yellow taxi behind him, the driver shouting at him through the window. A grin spread over his face, and he scrambled over to the car and climbed into the back seat.

"Policia," he calmly said to pacify the angry yells of the driver. "Seguir." He gestured towards the car ahead of them. With a Spanish obscenity on his lips, the driver banged at the dashboard with his fist and reluctantly began to drive.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

They tailed the car for a long time, down long, winding roads and up steep slopes towards the base of Mount Uli. The air inside the cab was sticky and thick with the all-pervading smell of leather and cigarette smoke. The driver was clearly having an affair with his sister-in-law, but that was by-the-by. Sherlock kept his eye trained on Moran's vehicle ahead of them and recited the periodic table in his head to keep calm. _Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium_.

By the time he got to Mendelevium the black car had pulled up outside a perfectly innocuous white villa, and Sherlock hissed for the driver to stop the cab. Not once taking his eyes off the two men who went through the front door, he took a couple of euro notes from his pocket, flung them at the driver and quietly slid out of the car, barely registering when it swiftly drove away. He took a good look at the house. Wall around the outside garden; easy enough to scale. No discernable security system or cameras on the outside: the house was a place of relaxation, a getaway, probably somewhere that very few people knew about. All this was good and would work in his favour, and he tried very hard not to be troubled by the fact that maybe it was too easy.

Sherlock bought a newspaper that he couldn't focus on and sat on a bench which had a good view of the villa, keeping up a quiet surveillance. The heat of the sun was unforgiving, his blood reprimanding him with every thick beat. There seemed to be no sound in that quiet place and everything was still, stagnating in the sunlight.

When the detective's mouth had dried and his damp shirt hard begun to grasp at his torso, the door to the villa opened once more and Moran and his companion came out, laughing together at some private joke. Sherlock could see the second man better now. He – about fifty – made a squat figure next to Moran, with his grey suit bulging out in front of him – married, no children. The man's eyes were enclosed by glasses – cheap, prescription, worked in public services – and his hairline was beginning to recede. He looked familiar, which was surprising, but Sherlock couldn't instantly put his finger on it and he didn't have time to sort through his mind palace; not right now.

The two men got back into the black car and drove off, heading back towards the centre of town. Sherlock left the newspaper forgotten on the bench and wandered over to the villa. He checked the road, and found it as empty as it had ever been. Then, with one swift movement he leapt at the wall, hoisting himself up on an uneven brick and down the other side.

He had been hoping that there was nobody in the house that he would have to contend with, and found himself lucky. Moran's garden was cool and shaded and silent, with a swimming pool in the centre that reflected the sky and green plants running alongside the wall. Sherlock pulled his foot free from a now-trampled Mexican Flame vine, and wandered noiselessly along the width of the pool towards the back door. When he pushed it, it opened under his hands with little fuss.

As he had expected, Moran's house was similar to his garden: crisp and cool, unpretentious. Within minutes Sherlock had located the kitchen and took several long drinks of water from the tap, draining them into himself like he had been hollowed out. Then he washed up the glass and left it on the draining board. There was little of interest in the fridge or in the sitting room. He lay on the sofa and rested for an hour before resuming his search. A rack of Bob Dylan CDs, some Henning Mankel books and a boxset of The Killing – irrelevant. Upstairs, Sherlock found a loaded Heckler & Koch stashed away in a desk drawer. He picked it up for safekeeping, switched the safety on and pushed it into the waistband of his trousers, noting with distaste the way the cold metal rubbed against his hip. Underneath the gun was a small piece of paper on which, written in looped, cursive handwriting, read the words: _Dear Seb, please enjoy this little token of my appreciation. - J x_.

Inside a filofax, Sherlock located various phone numbers and names, some of which had been hastily and recently scratched out. A couple of Moran's notations caught his eye – _09.05.12 expect ship. Zylstra 6:49am R. Portbury – _but most meant nothing. One page had been ripped out and was gone forever. There was no laptop to break into and no reason to do so even if it had been there. Once Moran was gone, Troy would fall.

The sky outside had started darkening, casting great waves of red sunset across the house that, when Sherlock looked out the window, were reflected in the rippling pool. He slowly wandered back downstairs with the gun chafing at his side. It didn't take long to find a suitable alcove, with a convenient curtain to conceal him from view. Satisfied, he took up his position behind the burgundy fabric, and waited.

When the door clicked open, about an hour later, Sherlock felt a shiver dance along his spine. The two men were laughing jovially in the same way they had been earlier, and he pressed himself tightly against the wall.

"No, I mean, she were a nice lass and all," one of the men was saying. "But I'm past my prime." Thick, Northern accent – Sheffield, probably. Moran's companion. His familiarity was grating, now.

"Well, girls around here, you pay them enough and you'll find them surprisingly compliant," laughed Moran. His voice was deeper, rougher, and far more dangerous that his friend. "But let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Oh, Sebastian," sighed the Northerner with glee. His words were followed by the sound of his fat hands slapping together. "I thought you'd never ask."

Two bottles had the tops snapped off them. Sherlock tried to steady his breathing. "How much were you hoping for?"

"How much are you willing to give?"

A quiet laugh. "I've got some stuff going down in the city. There's this kid – Adair – been kicking up a fuss and he's got some people involved that I need to keep quiet. Just make sure there's not too much made of it. Fifty thou."

There was a hum of disapproval. "Seventy five."

There was a long pause, and then a dark chuckle. "Jones, you greedy bastard!" said Moran appreciatively. "Sixty."

"Sixty five."

"Now you're just fucking with me. Sixty."

There was a long, drawn-out sigh. Then a resigned agreement: "Sixty."

There was a fluttering rustle as banknotes were counted out, and then Moran said, "Sixty thousand. Buy your wife something nice."

"Ta very much," grunted Jones, and there was a chink of the two bottles being bumped grudgingly together.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to turn the conversation to something else."

"Oh, aye?"

"John Watson."

Instantaneously, Sherlock felt how his blood refused to continue pumping around his body, like it had been salted over. He swallowed, suddenly feeling light-headed and drowned.

"What about him?"

"He's started snooping around where he's not wanted. I want to take care of him, and I'd appreciate it if maybe somebody else could have done the deed – Tom Ruskin, for example."

A long pause. "You…you'd give me Ruskin in exchange for _Watson_?"

"Ruskin's indispensible, but the press doesn't know that. Plus you get Watson off your hands – I hear he caused you some trouble when Holmes was arrested."

A mumble of affirmation. "Decked me right across the face, the little shite."

Oh. _Oh_. Athelney Jones – of course. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. How the hell could he have been so damn _blind_?

"You'll have no problem if he's found dead in his flat, then? Suicide, of course. Just like his little mate, yeah?"

"None whatsoever."

Sherlock felt close to vomiting. When he was young, he had learnt all about the Cost-Reward effect: about how, when aroused by fear or desperation, one had to measure up the danger and make the decision to turn and run, or stay and help. Now, standing in Moran's house with a loaded Heckler & Koch, there was nowhere to run to, and he had nothing left to lose. He swallowed against his dry throat, and tried to even his frantic pulse. Then he took the handle of the gun, pointed it straight out in front of him, and pulled back the curtain.

Jones had been standing facing the alcove, and so his reaction was immediate. His face drained of all colour so that, rather than a man, he resembled a bloated corpse. He reached out a fat finger and cried, "Jesus _fucking_ Christ!"

Moran turned, and his eyes slowly made a trail from Sherlock's face right down to the muzzle of the gun in his hand. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come out," he said, resting his hands casually in the pockets of his jeans.

Behind him, Jones was still trembling. "He's dead; he's fucking dead!"

"Well done, Superintendent, a brilliant impersonation of an idiot," Sherlock snapped, his voice rusted and rotten.

Moran laughed. "Jim told me you were a prickly bastard," he grinned. Then, without taking his eyes off the detective, he added, "Why don't you go outside for a bit, Al? Have a smoke. Clear your head."

However stupid Jones was, he couldn't miss the clear dismissal in Moran's voice, and he quickly scuttled out of sight. Moran looked Sherlock up and down.

"You knew I was alive," said Sherlock. "How?"

Moran ran a hand through his cropped hair. "You really should know better than to threaten people's better halves, Holmes," he said. "You threw yourself off a building for Doctor Watson – or didn't throw yourself off, clearly – so you should have known, really, not to say anything about Miss. Avilov."

Sherlock blinked. "Emilia Kovalenko. She told you."

"Well done, genius," Moran replied patronizingly.

"But how did she-"

"She mentioned someone was causing trouble. It wasn't too difficult to figure out who that someone was, even with that frankly appalling attempt at a disguise. Jim always said you were smart but, really, I'm just not seeing it." Moran scratched at his neck, and gave a smile that was almost apologetic. "And I'm not even that smart; not really. But, you see, that's why I'm going to win. You just want things to be clever, all the time. You think because there's some special rule that means geniuses can't kill each other, but I'm not a genius, so I'd have no problem with just picking up a gun and shooting you right between the eyes. In fact, I just might."

Sherlock remembered how once upon a time, in a sitting room in London with a clock hanging over his head, Moriarty had turned to him and said, 'Maybe I should get myself a live-in one.' It made Sherlock feel physically nauseous to think that this specimen of a man who stood in front of him now was the best that the consulting criminal could do. Jim was probably laughing in his grave. Because this, this antithesis, this mere _parody_ of John, this was the final insult.

"You forget I'm not playing a game anymore," he said.

Moran just shrugged. "You haven't shot me yet, have you?"

"No. Not yet."

And before he could be sucked into yet another whirlpool, Sherlock raised the gun, and fired a bullet right into Sebastian Moran's left eye.

The blood spurted, thick and black; spattered onto the tiles of the floor and the white walls, onto Sherlock himself. Moran reeled back and then crashed against a counter, flopping pathetically down to the floor and then slumping as liquid, clotted and tinged with something else that Sherlock didn't want to think about, crawled in spots towards him. Sherlock felt his hand let go of the gun; barely heard it clatter to the floor. Moran was dead, unrelentingly so, and his one remaining eye stared blindly at the ceiling.

There was a crash as Jones barreled in from the garden, and then he stopped by Moran's warm body, the toe of his shoe kissing a red puddle.

"You…" the policeman began, and then Sherlock turned and ran, through the back door and into the cold, dark garden. He leapt at the wall, fumbling through clinging plants that he could not see, and then there was a crack as a bullet hit the brick near his foot. With one monumental push, Sherlock heaved himself over the wall, and then down into the street, and then he took off running into the night.


	3. Part Three

When he drove into the small village of Saint-Jean-de-Muzols, the headlights of his car were the only lights for miles around. The thick darkness of the night had been locked into the valley by the mountains that enclosed it, and the strong yellow beam made a stark contrast as it passed over the rows and rows of vines that ran alongside the main road. His breathing was barely breathing anymore: as ragged as the sails of a wrecked ship as one by one the breaths tore themselves from his throat. His fingers trembled against the steering wheel.

In the smothering silence, he pulled the car up outside a small house. The building was old, made from grey and weathered stone bricks and seemingly as impenetrable as a fortress. There was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms: the yellow gleam covered by thick, purple curtains. For a moment he wondered if he was doing the right thing, but then he remembered that there were no other options; who else would take him now? So he opened the car door and dragged himself out, leaning for a moment on the door before quietly closing it. His feet scraped along the gravel as he stumbled over to the front door. Once more, he leant against it as a rush of dizziness sent spots exploding behind his eyes. Then he raised his hand, and pressed the doorbell.

There was a long pause – which was understandable, after all, people didn't usually expect visitors at two in the morning – and then came the sound of muffled footsteps and the click of various bolts being unfastened and the key being turned in the lock. The door opened.

They stared at each other for a long time, and Sherlock felt momentarily satisfied that he had managed to sufficiently surprise her.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Miss. Adler," replied Sherlock, without smiling. It was taking nearly all his concentration to stand upright. "Might I come in?"

Irene's brows pressed down onto her eyes. She looked very different to the last time he had seen her – now her hair was loose and messy, her face clear of cosmetics. She was dressed, not in a tight dress or an execution gown, but in a pair of rather ordinary purple cotton pyjamas. "I thought you were dead," she said accusingly.

"I'm not. But I might be soon. Can I come in?"

Irene didn't say anything for a moment. But then her spine straightened, and she adopted a familiar teasing smile. "Say please."

Sherlock sighed. "Please."

"Good boy." Irene moved to one side, allowing him room to past, and he brushed against her arm as he stepped into her house. Where she lived now was very different to her previous grand affair in Belgravia: all sleek wood panelling and dark, warm colours. It felt more like a home here.

"I see you got rid of your housekeeper," he observed as a cool wind touched his neck and the door shut behind him.

Irene hummed noncommittally. "Kate had her business in London. She was no longer necessary to my wellbeing. Would you like a drink, Junior?"

"No."

He felt a slim hand settle on his shoulder, slowly turning him around until they were face to face. Irene's eyes were glittering; her mouth slightly opening as if in promise. She took a step forward so that her lips were almost level with his neck.

"How about something to eat?" she said, the timbre of her voice soft and low. "We never did have dinner, did we?"

She raised her face to his, until he could almost feel her on his cheek, her hand on his neck.

"No."

There was a moment of stillness, and then Irene pulled back. "I'm sorry?"

"I can't. I – you know I…"

Then there was a finger against his mouth. "Ssh," said The Woman soothingly. "You don't have to explain." She drew her finger away, and took a step back, smiling sadly up at him. "Still, we had our fun, didn't we? While the game lasted."

Sherlock smiled. "You posed a bigger challenge to me, Miss. Adler, than anyone else I've ever known. Just not for the reason you think."

Irene smirked. "It wasn't just me, though, who posed a challenge. Me and one other."

Sherlock slowly nodded. "Of course."

"Well, that will have to do, I suppose."

Irene smiled, and it was probably the most undisguised he had ever seen her. Sherlock returned the gesture, and when she reached up to stroke his face there was no stirring deep inside him of something buried and forgotten. There was only recognition that this woman, The Woman, could never be anything less than his unadulterated equal.

"Look at those cheekbones," she muttered wistfully. "So wasted."

Sherlock laughed, and then Irene placed a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Dinner?" she asked. "I think there might be some cold cassoulet in the fridge."

She took him through to a large kitchen and sat him down at a long oak table while she heated up the stew. There was a photograph on a shelf of a beautiful young woman with ripples of blonde hair and a jacket that was unmistakably French, holding a cigarette and smiling at the camera as if she were trying not to laugh.

"She's your girlfriend," Sherlock stated.

"She's called Anais."

"I presume you've told her everything about your prior existence."

"Of course," said Irene, as she placed a bowl of cassoulet in front of him. "She's _very_ accommodating."

Sherlock speared a bean with his fork. "I can imagine."

He ate in silence for a short while. Irene watched him intently, resting her chin on her latticed fingers.

"You said you might be dead soon. Would you care to elaborate? Anais would be very upset if I was killed on your behalf."

Sherlock swallowed. "When you were working with Moriarty, did you ever meet Sebastian Moran?"

Irene frowned delicately. "I only met Jim once, for the initial consultation. There was somebody standing behind him: I thought he was a bodyguard, but he never spoke. A tall man, tanned, blonde hair."

"Moran, yes."

"Who is he?"

"He was Moriarty's sniper. He took over the business when his boss died."

Irene cocked her head. "And…he's following you?"

"No. I shot him. His friend is following me."

A smooth eyebrow was raised. "Well, that explains the bloodstains. And how long has this 'friend' been on your tail?"

"Eight hours. I drove here from San Sebastián. I estimate he's about an hour behind me, but he'll be stopping to speak to people."

"So you'll wait, and then what?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Try not to die."

Irene sighed. "I suppose I'd better slip into something a little less comfortable, then."

She disappeared upstairs and eventually came down in a sleek, gas-blue halterneck. Her heels tapped against the floor as she walked.

"What do you think?" she grinned.

"Very…histrionic."

"That was rather the point. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

Irene placed a hand on her hip. "How do you know I'm not in on it? Someone could have told me you were coming. In which case, you'd just be a fly in my trap. So how do you know?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers. "I don't," he conceded.

Irene looked him up and down. "Then why are you here?"

"Because I have nowhere else to go."

"Oh, poor sweetheart!" Irene crooned. She sashayed over and took his chin in her fingers. "Don't worry. I'm not in on it."

"That's very reassuring."

She patted his cheek and sat back down opposite him. Then she produced a tube of lipstick from a pocket and began to apply it, smearing her mouth with a bold red, her bottom lip being pulled along with the tide.

"So, when is this 'friend' supposed to be showing up?"

"Soon."

"What happens if he doesn't come here at all? Do I get to keep you?"

Sherlock smirked, and didn't reply.

"So you didn't die. What happened?"

"Moriarty was threatening people. I had to jump off St. Bart's to stop that from happening."

"But…you didn't."

"I did, but a friend of mine helped me to fake the death."

"Ingenious," Irene purred. "And nobody knows you're alive except me?"

"You, and my brother, and a pathologist, and almost everybody I've encountered recently," muttered Sherlock.

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport. John doesn't know."

"No."

Irene studied him intently, and she opened her mouth to speak again, but at that moment the doorbell sounded, shrill and insistent. She froze momentarily, and then leapt to her feet.

"Hide," she hissed, and Sherlock scraped his chair back. "There's a cupboard under the stairs."

Sherlock wasted no time in dashing back into the hall and throwing himself into the cupboard. Before he shut the door, he saw Irene smooth down her dress as she sauntered jauntily over to the front door, and then he enclosed himself in a dusty darkness.

He tried not to breathe as the front door clicked open. There came a muffled sound of Irene speaking in French, and then a yelp – presumably Jones had pushed her aside.

"Je ne sais pas ce que vous parlez! S'il vous plaît quitter ma maison!"

"Cut the bullshit, miss," replied Jones, his accent distinctive. "Where is he: where's Holmes?"

"Je ne comprends pas!"

There was a thud as Jones hit the wall and bellowed, "I know you're in here, Holmes!"

Sherlock felt for the gun, still tucked firmly in his waistband, and drew it. Then he flung the door open, and stepped out of the darkness, into the light.

Irene was standing by the still-open door, a look of false terror plastered on her face. Jones was in the middle of the corridor, sweating with effort, a SIG Sauer P226 in his hand. At the sight of Sherlock, he leered and raised his firearm, and Sherlock mirrored his movements exactly.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes," said Jones, wiping his forehead. "Here we are at last."

"At last," Sherlock replied levelly.

Jones shook his head slowly. "You killed a mate of mine earlier. So you know what happens now. I'm going to shoot you, right here in Miss. Adler's house. Then I'm going to go to London and order people to take care of Dr. Watson."

"If you shoot me I'll shoot right back."

Jones clearly hadn't anticipated this. "You think you're a big man? Think you're some kind of hero? Well you're not. You're _scum_."

Sherlock smiles to himself, and repeated the old words. "Heroes don't exist. If they did I wouldn't be one of them."

Jones grinned. "Go to hell, Holmes."

A shot rang out, and Sherlock's eyes flinched shut. When he felt no stabbing pain, he opened them again to see Jones clutching at his sodden chest before crumpling to the floor, his breathing shallow. Irene cocked the small pistol in her hand, and winked.

"Amazing what you can hide if you have the right pockets," she smiled with waxen, ruby lips as Jones died on the floor before her. "You should probably go now, darling, before I call the police."

"You…" Sherlock wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. "Why did you do that, why?"

"Call it a favour." Irene nudged Jones' meaty shoulder with the toe of her stiletto. "Now we're even. Properly even."

"But I-"

"You can't get all the way here and then wind up in some horrid French prison," Irene smiled languidly. "And anyway, I won't be arrested. Even if I am, I'm sure I'll get off. I know the General, you see…"

Sherlock smiled at the playful glint in her eyes, and when she finished the line he murmured it along with her: "At least, I know what he likes."

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't bother." Irene reached up, and kissed him on the cheek. "We'll be seeing each other again. After all, you just can't seem to keep away."

Sherlock dropped the gun onto the floor. Then he turned and bolted out the door as rosy-fingered dawn began to caress the sky into life.

* * *

He spoke for hours, as the night sky bended to the rain that slicked it down, and Molly sat patiently listening. He told her of the room full of dreamers, and of the man with one eye and an impossible desire. He spoke of the woman who turned men into pigs, and of how in a house by the sea his brother had read him the names of lost souls. He told her of when home had called to him and he had nearly answered. He told her of the moment when he was trapped between two dangers, and he told her of the woman who took him in when he washed up on her doorstep. All of this he told her, and all of the many adventures in between, and she listened silently throughout. When he was finished he couldn't meet her eyes under the bright lights of her flat.

Molly was absent-mindedly tickling the area between the cat's ears from when it had crawled onto her lap at some point during the tale. Sherlock swallowed and leant back against the sofa. His throat was raw from speaking; the tiredness pressing against his brain and filling up his head like a plastic bag.

"Sherlock?"

"What?" he snapped. Molly remained unperturbed.

"Moran's dead now." It wasn't a question.

"Yes," he replied. "But there'll be somebody else before long."

Molly smiled. "Take it one step at a time."

There was a pause as, outside, the rain thundered down over London's rooftops, slamming against the windows and drowning the trees that stood against it.

"I'm glad you're back, Sherlock," Molly murmured. "You're braver than I am." Then, as if she hadn't said anything at all, she lifted herself to her feet with a grunt. "You can stay here tonight, but then you've got to go home in the morning."

"Why wouldn't I go home?"

Molly shrugged. "Because you're scared."

Sherlock laughed contemptuously. "Scared? I'm not _scared_; what sort of idiot do you take me for?"

Once, this remark would have folded Molly in two, but now she only crossed her arms. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend it doesn't affect you. You're doing it like you used to; pretending you don't feel anything because it makes it easier. It might be difficult to believe, Sherlock, but I'm actually quite intelligent and I-I can _see _things."

Sherlock looked down at his hands. "I killed people, Molly," he muttered.

Molly shrugged. "Well, they weren't very nice people, were they? Anyway, I killed you. We've all just got to…get on with it."

There was a long silence, broken only by the purrs of the cat as it slumbered against the imprint its owner had left on the beanbag.

"You're shivering," Molly said, after a while. "Put some blankets on. I'm going to bed, so don't you dare put your shoes on my sofa."

She crossed over to the window to draw the curtains and then stopped, gazing out thoughtfully at the pouring rain.

"It's good, this rain," she said quietly, as if talking to herself. "London's been dry for ages. We needed it."

Then she drew the curtains, and turned off the light. The room was plunged into a throbbing darkness, and Sherlock fell into sleep even before she shut the door behind her.

When he awoke, there was light streaming through the closed curtains where a second ago there had been only night. The rain had ceased to fall. Sherlock rubbed his eyes, and stretched out on the sofa, finding himself entangled in the cotton throw that had been his duvet. The cat gazed warily at him from beside a potted plant.

There was a note on the fridge that said: _Gone to work. There's food in the cupboard. Clothes hanging in wardrobe. Good luck! Xoxo. _It was nearly midday.

Sherlock brewed a cup of tea and then rummaged around in the cupboards for something edible, coming up only with a loaf of Tesco's granary and a jar of Marmite; God he'd missed Marmite. When he had eaten he went into Molly's bathroom and stripped the clothes from his aching body. He stood in the shower for nearly forty minutes, scrubbing the remnants of cheap dye from his hair and soaping away the cuts and scrapes and bruises.

When he was done, he looked in Molly's bathroom mirror and sighed at his reflection. He could have passed for a member of his own homeless network. He found some razors in a cabinet and shaved off the stubble from his chin until he vaguely resembled someone more familiar. Then he towel-dried his hair and clipped his fingernails; found a bin bag and disposed of all his stinking, bloodstained garments.

His coat was in Molly's wardrobe, hanging in a plastic dry cleaner's bag next to the rows of dresses and floral tops. He took it out and stroked the material, and then put it to his nose and smelled it. All the clothes he had been wearing on the day of the Fall were there too; all cleaned and pressed into near-newness. Sherlock put them on one by one, gradually feeling himself return as he did so.

Outside, the pavements were damp from the previous rain, and his polished shoes squeaked as he dodged puddles. There were very few people out on the streets, save for a few builders digging up the road, and nobody turned to notice the dead man who had risen from the grave. Sherlock hailed a cab, and climbed into the back seats with relish.

"Where to?"

He smiled, and announced in a clear voice: "221B Baker Street."

Sherlock stood outside the house for a while, looking up at the brickwork and the black door and the windows. The spare key, as always, was hidden underneath a loose slab of concrete next to the door, and he found it with practised ease. He unlocked the door quietly, hardly daring to breathe, and sighed with relief when Mrs. Hudson didn't come flitting out of her flat. The wallpaper was the same; he still knew how to walk up the stairs without treading on the floorboards that creaked.

Then he turned the corner, and there it was.

His fingers found the door handle and Sherlock paused for a moment before pushing against the wood. As if welcoming him home, it gave way with a sigh under his hand. When he walked slowly into the room he felt the wave crash and break over him, and he accepted it with joy, for on that empty horizon he could just make out the shape of his ship, finally coming in to land.

"John?"

John Watson turned around, and the journey was over.


End file.
